


unhelpful

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band), Veep (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Politics, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 19:51:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10703937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: gryles veep auwritten march 2015other tidbits in ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com/tagged/veep





	unhelpful

“Ma'am,” Nick repeats, for the third time. He’s sweating in his too-tight Dolce suit and Gillian’s fucked off to God-knows-where and the goddamn _lunatic_  of a woman he works for won’t come out of the fucking _bathroom_. “Ma'am! The PM’s arrived, and he’s looking for you, we should really get-”

“Tell him I’ve died.”

Nick puts his forehead against the cool wooden door. Breathe. _Breathe_. “I- I can’t do that, ma'am.”

“Tell him I’m deathly ill, and I had to go home-”

The hotel room door swings open, and Nick glances back to see Ben Winston, sweat glistening at his temples, hair gelled into place. Ben does the exact same job Nick does, except he does it for the PM, who is at least somewhat sane, unlike Nick’s nutjob of a boss. For this reason, Ben thinks he’s about twelve times better than Nick as an employee and as a human being. He’s a bastard, basically.

“Where the fuck is the Vice President?” he hisses.

“She’s on her way,” Nick says cheerily. “All good. Just a few more minutes. Thanks so much for your patience.”

Ben’s jaw clenches. “This is absolutely ridiculous.”

Nick lowers his voice. “The VP is working on the particulars of her speech on foreign policy at the moment, Mr. Winston. If you’ll please-”

“Madam Vice President!” Ben calls, giving Nick the finger. Nick pretends to slip it into his pocket, blows Ben a kiss. “Ma'am, I’m so sorry to rush you, but the Prime Minister-”

“- is waiting, yes, I know,” the Vice President says, opening the door in a tangible cloud of perfume. Nick takes a step back, holds the door for her. “So sorry to keep him. I’m sure my assistant Mr. Grimshaw expressed to you the- the reason for my tardiness.”

She smiles blankly at Nick. “Didn’t you, Nicholas?”

“Finishing up the speech on foreign policy,” Nick says. “Yes, ma'am, I did. Mr. Winston insisted.”

“If I could just escort you to the ballroom, Madam Vice President, that would be-”

“Oh, of course. If you’ll just give me a minute to gather my things.”

Nick waves Ben out of the hotel room, slams the door shut. Anne turns to him.

“Where the hell is my speech?” she hisses.

“Gillian is - getting it. From the printer.”

“Well, how fucking far away is the fucking printer? Jesus Christ, I’m supposed to talk in ten minutes. Eloquently. About the value of the _fucking_ euro.”

“And you will, ma'am.”

“And now he’s sending his people into my private hotel room - I thought I told you I never wanted to see the Prime Minister’s slimeball of an assistant ever again.”

“I know, ma'am.”

“I swear to Christ, that man would kill his own mother to get ahead. Kind of admirable. Scary, but admirable.”

“Sure, ma'am.”

He hears a commotion at the door, and wheels around to find Gillian, shoving her way past Ben, a paper flapping in her hand.

“Ma'am!” she gasps, out of breath, suit jacket unbuttoned and blonde hair going frizzy at the ends. Nick feels her pain. “The speech-”

“Yes, yes,” Anne says, taking the paper from Gillian and slipping her glasses onto her nose to study it.

Gillian shoots Nick an exhausted glance, and pulls out her Blackberry.

There’s a knock on the door. “Madam Vice President!”

“God, I fucking hate that man,” Anne mutters. “Alright, then. Let’s go. Where’s my son? Is he- taken care of? Not taken care of, that sounds sinister, but is he-”

"He’s in the ballroom, ma'am,” Gillian says. “Liam assures me he is behaving himself.”

“Well, thank fuck. Keep an eye on him tonight, will you, Nick?”

Nick is no one’s damn babysitter, especially not some spoiled rich kid with alcoholic tendencies, but he nods fervently, and pulls open the door. Ben’s staring down at his Blackberry, tapping his foot, and he looks up, face breaking into a wide fake smile.

“Madam Vice President, always a pleasure,” he says. “The Prime Minister is eagerly awaiting you at dinner.”

“Oh, how lovely, I can’t wait to see him. Now how are your children doing? You have - two, right?”

“I- I don’t have any children, Madam Vice President.”

“Oh, no? God, I can’t imagine why.”

Nick chokes on a laugh, and Gillian elbows him, follows Ben and the Vice President down a long, arching staircase. The ballroom’s packed with people, but they all look up when Anne walks in, going starry-eyed at the sight of her. Nick bites back a smile. She may be mental, but she does know how to make an entrance. 

—

The speech goes well, of course. Gillian’s next to him in the wings, practically mouthing along, while Nick listens and steps on her foot every time she mumbles something out loud.

“Nice work, Gellz,” he whispers to her, once it’s over, and Gillian preens.

“Not my best,” she says, very obviously lying.

“Bitch,” Nick says companionably, and then, turning his mouth up at the corners as Anne steps off the stage - “Madam Vice President, wonderful job, that was inspiring - can I fetch you a drink?”

From then on they can relax, or as much as they can ever really relax. Gillian and Nick sit at a table as far away from the PM and the Vice President as possible, split a bottle of wine and try determinedly to discuss frivolous things. Nick has to bring the topic back to the Kardashians three separate times after Gillian starts going on about unemployment rates. It’s a tough job, being the dumbest person on the Vice President’s staff, but someone’s got to do it.

Nick’s about to launch into a story about the time Beyoncé visited the White House, before Gellz came on as a speech-writer, when he feels a tap on the shoulder.

“Mr. Grimshaw,” Liam says, wide-eyed. He’s freshly-minted, straight out of Secret Service school or whatever they do, and he’s been assigned to arguably the most difficult person to guard in the entire world - Anne’s son. Nick’s giving him three months before he burns out. “I - I think I need your help.”

“You _think_ you need my help.”

“It’s - it’s Mr. Styles, sir. If you’ll just - the, um, Miss Vice President said you’re the best at dealing with him.”

Garbled titles aside, Nick’s both insulted and flattered that Anne said that. Why’s Nick the best at wrangling children? He’s a serious politician, damnit. He went to _law school_ for this shit.

“Jesus, alright,” Nick says, draining his wine. “Sorry, Gellz.”

“Have fun,” Gillian says, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh, I always do.” Nick shoves his chair back, and follows Liam through the crowd, smiling tightly at all the notable people he knows who don’t know him back.  

They duck through a back exit until Nick’s at the heavy wooden door of a handicapped bathroom. Liam steps off to the side, looks at Nick expectantly.

Nick stares at it, and then at Liam. “Am I supposed to be getting what we’re doing here?”

“He’s locked himself in there,” Liam says, gesturing at the door. “With a bottle of vodka. And a can of ginger ale, I’m assuming as, like, a chaser?”

“Christ,” Nick mutters. “Like mother like fucking son.”

“I tried everything. I tried to break down the door, only someone came down the hall and they looked a bit… suspicious, so I stopped doing that, and I begged for a while, but he’s - uh, he didn’t listen.”

“It’s not your fault,” Nick says absently. He leans forward, raps hard on the door, three times. “Harry?”

Nothing.

Nick gusts out a sigh. “Harry. It’s Nick. Grimshaw. Your mother’s very worried about you.”

Silence, yet again. God, Nick hates his job.

“Harry,” Nick starts, cajolingly. “Why don’t you come out and let Liam take you up to your room, huh? You can’t stay in there all night.”

“He says he can,” Liam whispers. “Stay in there all night.”

Nick ignores him.

“Harry, please, just-”

The door opens, and Nick blinks, surprised.

Harry peers out, hair curling dark around his angular face. He’s watery-eyed from drink, cheeks red. Yep, straight up to the hotel room he’ll have to go. No one can see him like this, the VP’ll have a fucking fit.

“C'mere,” he slurs, before he grabs Nick by the front of his shirt and drags him inside the bathroom.

Harry shoves him away from the door with surprising strength, slams it shut and locks it again. Nick gasps for breath, brushing himself off.

“Mr. Styles!” Liam calls, voice tinny from outside. “Mr. Grimshaw! Please let me in there!”

Harry lets out a throaty laugh, tips an uncapped bottle of vodka to his mouth.

“Take pity on him,” Nick mutters, reaching for the lock, and Harry shoves his hand away, puts his body between Nick and the door. He grins at Nick triumphantly, green eyes flashing.

“Uh-uh.”

“Harry-”

“Noooope,” Harry slurs, right before he belches loudly, slumps back against the locked door. Nick wrinkles his nose. Oh, Christ. Harry discovered alcohol a couple years ago, just around when Anne decided to start fucking Harry’s dad again, for the first time since Harry was seven. That ended pretty quick, because Harry’s dad is a royal prick, but Harry hasn’t given up on vodka yet. They’re best friends, Harry and booze.

“Harry,” Nick says, calmly. “What d'you think about going to bed?”

“With you?” Harry asks, mouth curling up wickedly. “I’m up for it.”

Nick tries his hardest not to blush. Harry’s nine years his junior, and the son of his boss, who happens to be the Vice President of the United fucking States.

It’s just that Harry’s also a lush and a terrible flirt, and Nick is very, very alone. Very alone and overworked and stressed and -

“That a yes?”

Nick shakes himself. “No,” he says. “You need a gallon of water and a good long sleep, Mr. Styles.”

“Mr. Styles, now?” Harry pouts, head lolling against the polished wood of the door. His mouth’s very - pink. “Aw, and I thought we were getting so close.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, reaching out and fumbling for Nick’s hand. He pulls him in, until Nick can feel the heat of his breath, the stench of vodka. “Like, really close.”

“You,” Nick starts, swallowing hard. Harry’s stroking over the veins in his wrist, and _Christ_ , Nick really is hard-up, because it’s making him shiver. “You were mistaken. Mr. Styles. Now let’s get you to bed.”

Harry grumbles in his throat. “Wanna stay in here.”

“You’re in a bathroom, Mr. Styles. You can’t stay here.”

“It’s not like Lionel’s gonna break me out of here, is he.”

“His name’s Liam,” Nick says. “Liam.”

Harry waves a hand in the air. “You know who I meant.”

“Harry. Mr. Styles. Let’s focus. How can we get you up to bed without anyone seeing how trashed you are?”

Harry hums thoughtfully. “You could put me on a stretcher under a sheet.”

Nick rubs his temples. Unhelpful.

“Or on a busboy cart thing,” Harry says, snorting out a laugh. “Hidden under some luggage.”

He tips the vodka bottle up again and Nick grabs it out of his hand. “No more of that.”

Harry blinks at him. “Scuse me?”

“No more vodka,” Nick says, more boldly than he feels. He is almost definitely not supposed to grab things out of his boss’ son’s hands. But desperate times, right? “You’re drunk enough.”

“Fuck _you_ ,” Harry says, fumbling for the vodka. “Gimme it.”

“No, Harry!”

“Gimme it!”

Nick’s holding the bottle out of Harry’s reach when he hears a familiar voice outside the bathroom, and he freezes, terrified.

“Where is he?” he hears, again. “Logan, please tell me you know where the _fuck_ my son is, or I’ll be extraordinarily happy to boot your ass out of this place myself -”

“Oh, shit,” Nick breathes, as Liam stammers something unintelligible. “I’m gonna get fired.”

Harry looks at him measuredly for a minute, before he turns around and unlocks the door, hands clumsy.

He yanks the door open, and Nick blinks at the sudden light.

“Mommy,” Harry says, flatly, swaying a little. “You made it.”

“What the hell are you- oh my god, Harold, your _breath_ ,” Anne says, covering her nose. “Jesus. What are you doing?”

Harry shrugs sullenly. “Just hanging out.”

“Ma'am,” Nick says frantically, from behind him. “We’re escorting Har- Mr. Styles to bed immediately.”

“See that you do,” Anne snaps. She checks to make sure no one’s watching, and twists Harry’s earlobe between finger and thumb until Harry whines. “Get yourself into bed, Harry, we’ll speak about this in the morning. And don’t say a fucking word to anyone. Don’t _speak_. Nick, make sure he doesn’t fucking speak.”

“I will, ma'am,” Nick says, letting out a relieved gust of breath.

Anne lets go of Harry’s ear and pats his cheek. “Go to bed.”

“Love you too, mother,” Harry says sourly, before he staggers past her and drapes himself over Liam’s shoulder. Nick follows behind, shooting an apologetic smile at the Vice President before he takes off, jogging to catch up.

They make it upstairs. Harry dozes off in the elevator, rouses himself enough to get undressed and crawl into bed. He’s breathing heavily, groaning with each movement, and Nick bets he’ll be vomiting before the night is out. He rolls Harry onto his side, carefully touching above the waist only, and sets the bin on the ground next to him. It seems a bit - unceremonial, but then again, a drunk person is a drunk person. Don’t matter who his mother is.

“Wait,” Harry slurs, when Nick stands up, tugging at his suitjacket.

Nick looks down at him. Harry’s heavy-eyed, his lips red, curls spread across the pillow like an old-timey princess or something equally awful. Nick’s watched him grow from a round-cheeked bright-eyed teenager to a unsettlingly gorgeous, sullen nineteen-year old, and the transition has been - difficult. For Nick. He assumes it’s been easy for Harry. Just becoming a fucking supermodel, no big deal.

“Yes?”

“C'mere, c'mere,” Harry mumbles, patting the bed.

Nick shoots a look back at Liam, who’s in the other room playing Candy Crush on his phone in an uncomfortable-looking armchair that’s too small for him. He’s barely paying attention. Nick sits.

Harry grabs for his hand. His skin is soft, his hands pampered and smooth. Nick absolutely doesn’t think about how nice those hands would feel, like, all over his-

“M'sorry I almost got you fired,” Harry says, very sincerely. He drops a few consonants, but the sentiment stands.

Nick sets Harry’s hand down very carefully, like it’s a piece of glass. “Don’t fret. I’ve survived another day.”

“Survived,” Harry says, gurgling out a laugh.

“Not that it’s - I mean, it’s an absolute privilege to work for your mother, it really is,” Nick babbles, neck flushing hot. “She’s an amazing woman, I wasn’t saying I-”

“Nick?” Harry says, softly. “Shut up.”

Nick goes quiet.

“C'n I ask you something?” Harry murmurs.

Nick tenses up. “Sure.”

Harry moves his hand from the bed to Nick’s thigh.

“Do you like boys?”

Nick swallows very hard. 

“That’s - a very unprofessional, um, question.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t work for me,” Harry says, low in his throat.

Nick ducks his head, stares at Harry’s hand on his leg. Jesus Christ.

“Do you?” he asks. It’s absolutely and completely stupid, and he’d never say it if he thought Harry would remember it in the morning.

Harry’s hand tightens on Nick’s thighs.

“I think so,” he says, after a long moment. He sounds lost. “Is that bad?”

What a question. Of course it’s bad. Harry’s mother is hanging onto semi-decent approval polls by the skin of her teeth, and her son coming out would be a whole _thing_. A whole thing Anne doesn’t need, not now, when there’s rumors of her being dropped from the ticket in 2018.

Harry makes a soft sound in his throat, and pulls his hand off Nick’s thigh.

“Never mind,” he mumbles, when Nick doesn’t answer.

“Jesus,” Nick says. God. Where the fuck are his morals? President of the bloody Queer Alliance at Columbia, and he’s considering crushing some confused kid’s dreams in favor of fucking _polling numbers_. Sometimes Nick has no idea who he’s become. “Jesus, Harry, no, that’s not bad. That’s not bad at all.”

“I can’t tell my mother,” Harry whispers.

That is - mostly true.

“It’s not bad,” Nick says, reaching up, heart in his throat, to stroke at the soft mess of Harry’s curls. They’re silky under his fingers. Oh, Nick’s an idiot. He’s a goner. “It’s not. You’re alright, Harry. I promise.”  

Harry sniffs in hard. Reaches up with his free hand to swipe at his eyes.

“It’s alright,” Nick says softly. “Just go to bed, alright?”

“You won’t - tell anyone.”

Nick’s heart clenches, as Harry’s voice goes wobbly. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Harry nods into the pillow, and closes his eyes.

Nick squeezes his shoulder, Harry’s arm warm and bare. “You’re alright,” he says again, fruitlessly. Harry’s not alright, really. It’s a prerequisite of the job, not being alright.

And Harry has a job. Even if he didn’t sign up for it. They all have work to do.

Nick bites his lip, and stands up.

Liam’s dozing off in the chair, and he snaps awake when Nick touches his shoulder.

“What?” he gasps. “What? I’m - I’m awake.”

Nick huffs a laugh. “I’m going to check on the Veep. Harry’s sleeping. Careful he doesn’t choke on his puke, alright?”

Liam nods vehemently, and Nick closes the hotel door quietly behind him on his way out.

He goes over to Anne’s room, smiles at the agent posted outside, knocks three times.

She pulls it open. “Yes?”

“Just - wanted to say that your son is sleeping,” Nick says. “All good.”

He forces a smile, exhausted all of a sudden. “Do you need anything, ma'am?”

“No, no,” Anne says, shaking her head, and then she looks up, eyes flashing. Same eyes as Harry, bright green. “Actually. Yes. Do you have a cigarette?”

Nick falters. “Uhh, I- um-”

“Jesus,” Anne hisses. “Speak up.”

“Yes, yes I do, ma'am.” Nick fumbles for the pack in his back pocket, and Anne opens the door wider, beckons him inside. Nick steps in, bemused, hands over the pack.

“Jesus,” Anne mutters. “Camels? How old are you?”

“Uh, I’m twenty-eight, ma'am-”

“Shut up. Tell me you have a lighter.” She holds the cigarette between two fingers, stalks over to the balcony in bare feet, unlocks the door. “C'mon. Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.”

Nick swallows hard, and follows her.

They smoke in silence, Nick puffing nervously and trying to seem relaxed, like this is something he does every day. Just smoking a cigarette with the Vice President on a hotel balcony in London. Normal stuff.

“Where did you go to school, again, Nick?”

Nick coughs out a mouthful of smoke. “Uhh, Columbia for undergrad and law school.”

She nods, slowly.

“Harry wants to go to some place in Wisconsin,” she says, not looking at him, staring at the glittering lights of the city. “Some dumbfuck little town. It has a good environmental program, or something. So does Brown, I keep telling him. He’s just trying to be rebellious, he doesn’t give a shit about - trees.”

Nick huffs an awkward laugh.

“You have kids, Nick?”

“No ma'am.”

“Why not?” She looks at him, taking a drag on the cigarette.

“Uhh,” Nick says. “I’m pretty, er, busy. And very gay.”

She laughs. “Fair enough.”

Nick leans back in his chair, discreetly ashing his cigarette onto the concrete ground.

“Try and avoid it,” Anne says, distantly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Kids. They’re fucking impossible.”

Nick thinks of Harry, asleep on his side in a hotel room.

“I went through nine months and fourteen hours of agony to pop out some spoiled brat who can’t stand me,” she says, sucking hard on the cigarette.

“I- I don’t think he can’t stand you, ma'am.”

“Oh, he definitely can’t. Hates his father too. But that’s more understandable, isn’t it.”

Nick is most definitely not responding to that. He hums noncommittally.

“They don’t tell you that can happen,” she says. “That they’ll turn on you.”

Nick laughs uncomfortably.

“Teenagers, I guess,” he says, and immediately winces. God, Nick, shut up.

Anne heaves a sigh, and drops her cigarette in the ashtray on the table between them.  

“Alright,” she says. “Guess we should all get some sleep.”

Nick nods, stubs his cigarette out even though it wasn’t finished. “Of course, ma'am, I’ll leave you alone.”

He locks the balcony door behind them, as Anne wanders into the bathroom.

“It was a great speech tonight, ma'am,” he calls. “Very well-delivered.”

Anne comes out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in her mouth, hair still swept up and frozen solid with hairspray.

“Don’t blow smoke up my ass,” she says, mouth full of white foam. “Go to bed.”

Nick flushes. “Good night, ma'am.”

“Good night.”

He shuts the hotel door gently behind him, nods at the Secret Service agent standing watchfully in the hall, and takes off for the elevators.

His bed is immaculate and soft and fucking _freezing_. The A/C’s been set at 55, for some reason, and Nick shivers as he strips his trousers off, unbuttons his shirt, crawls into bed in just his briefs. He shudders in bed for a while, until it starts to get warm, and then he lies there, curled on his side, unable to sleep.

Harry Styles. Harry Styles should be the last thing on Nick’s mind, considering the stuffed-full schedule they’ve got this week, the talking points Nick still hasn’t typed up about the new trade agreement, the maneuvers he’ll have to pull tomorrow to keep Ben goddamn Winston out of the Vice President’s way before she murders him with her bare hands.

Nick gusts out a sigh, puts a pillow over his head. Harry fucking Styles. That’s a thing, isn’t it. It’s a thing. It can’t be a thing, and yet. It is. Shit.


End file.
